 Part 1, Chapter 9b of the Adventures of Jimmy Dale. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. The Adventures of Jimmy Dale by Frank L. Packard. Part 1, The Man in the Case. Chapter 9b, Two Crooks and a Nave, continued. It was 12 minutes after 9, when he drew up at the curb, in front of the side entrance of the hotel. His watch, set by Guesswalk, had been a little slow, and he had corrected it at the club. He was replacing the watch in his pocket, as he sauntered around the corner, and passed in through the main entrance to the big lobby. Jimmy Dale avoided the elevators. It was only one flight up, and elevator boys on locations had been known to be observant. At the top of the first landing, a long, wide, heavily-capeted corridor was before him. Number 148, the corner room on the right, the toxin had said. Jimmy Dale walked non-talently along, past number 148. At the lower end of the hall, a group of people were gathered around the elevator doors. Halfway down the corridor, a bellboy came out of a room and went ahead of Jimmy Dale. And then Jimmy Dale stopped suddenly, and began to retrace his steps. The group had entered the elevator. The bellboy had disappeared around the further end of the hall, into the wing of the hotel. The corridor was empty. In a moment, he was standing before the door of number 148. In another, under the persuasion of a little steel instrument, deathly manipulated by Jimmy Dale's slim, tapering fingers, the lock clicked back, the door opened, and he stepped inside, closing and locking the door again behind him. It was already a quarter past nine, but no one was as yet in the connecting room. The fan light next door had been dark as he passed. His flashlight swept about him, located the connecting door, and went out. He moved to the door, tried it, and found it locked. Then the little steel instrument came into play, released the lock, and Jimmy Dale opened the door. Again the flashlight winked. The door opened into a bathroom that, obviously, at will, was either common to the two rooms, or cooled, by the simple expedient of locking one door or the other, or used by one of the rooms alone. In the present instance, the occupant of the adjoining apartment had taken a room with a bath. Jimmy Dale passed through the bathroom to the opposite door. This was already three quarters open, and swung outward into the bedroom, near the lower end of the room by the window. Through the crack of the door by the hinges, Jimmy Dale flashed his light, testing the radius of vision. Pushed the door a few inches wider open, tested it again with the flashlight, and retreated back into number one for it, closing the door on his side until it was just ajar. He stood there, then, silently waiting. It was Hansard's room next door, and Hansard and the whistle were already late. A step sounded outside in the corridor. Jimmy Dale straightened intently. The step passed on down the hallway, and died away. A false alarm, Jimmy Dale smiled. Whimsically. It was a strange adventure, this that comforted him. Quite the strangest in the way that the toxin had ever planned, and the night lay before him full of peril in its extraordinary complications. To win the hand, he must block Hansard and the whistle, without allowing them an inkling that his interference was anything more than, say, the luck of a hotel's negative at most. The whistle was a dangerous man. One of the slickest second-story workers in the country. With safe cracking as one of his favorite pursuits, a man most endlessly desired by the police provided the latter could catch him with the goods. As for Hamvert, he did not know Hamvert, who was a stranger in New York, except that Hamvert had fleeced a man named Michael Breen out of his share in a claim they had had together when Breen had first gone to Alaska to try his luck. And now, having discovered that Breen went prospecting a loan somewhere in the interior a month or so ago, had found a rich vein and had made a map or diagram of its location. He, Hamvert, had followed the order to New York for the purpose of getting it by hook or crook. Breen's find had been too late. Taking sick, he had never walked his claim. Had barely got back home before he died, and only in time to hand his wife the strange legacy of a roughly-scrawled little piece of paper. And Jimmy Dale strengthened up a latterly once more, steps again and this time coming from the direction of the elevator, then voices, then the opening of the door of the next room. Then a voice, distinctly audible, pull up a chair and we'll get down to business. You are late as it is. We haven't any time to waste if we are going to wash pay debts tonight. Oh, that's alright, responded another voice. Quite evidently, there was us. Don't use worry. The game singed to a fadeway. There was a sound of chairs being moved across the floor. Jimmy Dale slips the black silk mask over his face, opened the door on his side of the bathroom cautiously, and without a sound stepped into the bathroom that was lighted now, of course, by the light streaming through the partially-opened door of Hamvert's room. The two were talking endlessly now in lower tones. Jimmy Dale only caught a word here and there. His faculties for the moment were concentrated on traversing the bathroom silently. He reached the father door, crouched there, peered through the crack, and the old whimsical smile flickered across his lips again. The Palais metropou was high-class and exclusive, and the whistle for once looked quite the gentleman. And for all his sharp, ferret face, not entirely out of keeping with his surroundings, else he would never have got further than the lobby. The order was a short, thick-set, heavy-jowled man with a great shock of sandy hair and small black eyes that looked suitively out from overhanging Bushy eyebrows. Well, Hamvert was saying, the details are your concern. What I want is results. We won't waste time. You have to be back here by daylight. Only see that there's no comeback. Leave it to me, return the whistle, with assurance. How's there going to be any combat? Metal keeps it in a safe, don't he? Well, gentlemen's houses has been robbed before, and this job will be a good one. The geography stunt yours wants gets paged with the rest, that's all. It disappears. See? Who's to know yours gets your clothes on it? It's just lost in the shuffle. Right, agreed Hamvert briskly. And from his inside pocket produced a package of crisp new bills, yellow backs, and evidently of large denominations. Half down and half on delivery, that's a deal. That's what assented the whistle cuddly. Hamvert began to count the bills. Jimmy Deo's hand stole into his pocket and came out with his handkerchief and the thin metal insignia case. From the latter, with its little pair of tweezers, he took out one of the adhesive gray seals. His eyes were really on the two men. He dropped the seal on his handkerchief, restored the thin metal case to his pocket, and instead the blue-black ugly muzzle of his automatic bips from between his fingers. Five cows and down said Hamvert, pushing a pile of notes across the table and tucking the remainder back into his pocket and the other fives here for you when you get back with the map. Ordinarily, I wouldn't pay a penny in advance, but since you want it that way and the map's no good to you while the rest of the long green is, I... He swallowed his words with a startled gulp, clutched hastily at the money on the table, and began to struggle up from his chair to his feet. With a swift, noiseless sidestep through the open door, Jimmy Deo was stranded in the room. Jimmy Deo's tones were conversational. Don't get up, said Jimmy Deo Cooley, and take your hand off that money. The whistle, whose back had been to the door, squirmed around in his chair, and in his tone stared into the muzzle of Jimmy Deo's revolver while his jaw dropped and sacked. Good evening, whistle, observed Jimmy Deo casually. I seemed to be in luck tonight. I got into the room next door, but an empty room is slim-picking, and then it seemed to me I had someone in here mention $5,000 twice, which makes $10,000, and which happens to be just exactly the sum I need at the present moment. If I can't get any more, I haven't the honor of your well-difference acquaintance, but I am really charmed to meet him. You understand, both of you, that the slightest sound might prove extremely embarrassing. Hanva's face was white, and he stared uneasily in his chair. But into the whistle's face, the first shock of surprise this may pass, came a dull, angry red and into the eyes a viscous gleam, and suddenly he laughed shortly. Why yours damned fool jaded the whistle? Do yours think yours can just get away with that? Say, take it from me. Yours are a picker. Say, yours make me tired. What do yours think yours are? Do you think this is a theater? And that yours a chipskate actor strolling across the stage? Oh, beat it. Yours make me sick. Why, say, you spend that money, and yours have got the same chance of getting out of this hotel as a guy has of breaking out a sink-sink. By the time yours gets five feet from the door of this room, we has the hole works on your neck. Do you think so, whistle? Inquired Jimmy Dale politely. He carried his handkerchief to his mouth to cloak a cuff, and his tongue touched the adhesives side of the little diamond-shaped gray seal. Hand and handkerchief came back to the table, and Jimmy Dale leaned his weight carelessly upon it, while the automatic in his right hand still covered the two men. Do you think so, whistle? He repeated softly. Well, perhaps you are right. And yet, somehow I am inclined to disagree with you. Let me say, whistle. It was Tuesday night two nights ago, wasn't it, that a trifling break in Midden Lane, atorald and sons, disturbed the police. It was a three-year job for even a first offender. Ten for one already on nodding terms with the police. And fifteen to twenty-four. Well, say, for a man like you. Whistle, if he were caught. Am I making myself quite plain? The color in the whistle's cheeks faded a little. His eyes were holding in sudden fascination upon Jimmy Dale. I see that I am observed Jimmy Dale pleasantly. I said, if he were caught, you will remember. I am going to leave this room in a moment's whistle, and leave it entirely to your discretion, as to whether you will think it wise or not to stare from that chair for ten minutes after I shut the door. And now, Jimmy Dale nonchalantly replaced his handkerchief in his pocket, nonchalantly followed it with the banknotes which he picked up from the table, and smiled. With a gasp, both men had straightened forward, and were staring wild-eyed at the gray seal stuck between them on the table top. The gray seal whispered the whistle, and his tongue circled his lips. Jimmy Dale shrugged his shoulders. That was a bit theatrical whistle, he said apologetically, and yet not wholly unnecessary. You will recall Stan Gaest, the Moop, Australian Ike, and Clary Dean, and can draw your own inference as to what might happen in the Torald Affair, if you should be so ill-advised as to force my hand. He hit me, the slim, deft fingers, like a streak of lightning, where inside handbaths could pocket, and out again with the remainder of the banknotes. And Jimmy Dale was backing for the door, not the door of the bathroom by which he had entered, but the door of the room itself that opened on the corridor. There he stopped, and his hand swept around behind his back, and turned the key in the locked door. He nodded at the two men whose faces were walking with incongruously mingled expressions of impotent rage, bewilderment, fear and fury, and opened the door a little. Ten minutes' whistle, he said gently. I trust you will not have to use heroic measures to restrain your friend for that length of time. Though if it is necessary, I should advise you for your own sake to resort almost to murder. I wish you good evening, gentlemen. The door opened further. Jimmy Dale, still facing inward, slipped between it and the jump, whipped the mass from his face, closed the door softly, stepped briskly but without any appearance of haste along the corridor to the stairs. Descended the stairs, mingled with a crowd in the lobby for an instant, walked seemingly a part of it, with a group of ladies and gentlemen down the hall to decide entrance. Passed out, and a moment later, after drawing on a linen dustcoat which he took from under the seat and exchanging his hat for a tweed cap, the car glided from the curb and was lost in a press of traffic around the corner. Jimmy Dale laughed a little harshly to himself. So far so good, but the game was not ended yet for all the crackle of the crisp notes in his pocket. There was still the map, still the robbery at Mitchell's house. The $10,000 theft would not in any way change that, and it was a question of time now to forestall any move the whistle might make. Through the city, Jimmy Dale alternately dodged, spotted and dragged his way, fuming with impatience. What once out on the country roads and headed toward New Rochelle, the big machine, speed limits thrown to the winds, roared through the night, a gray streak of roads jumping under the powerful lamps, a village, a town, a cluster of last flights flashing by him, the steady pull of his 60 horsepower engines, the gray tread of open road again. It was just 11 o'clock when Jimmy Dale, the road to himself for the moment, at a spot a little beyond New Rochelle, extinguished his lights and very carefully ran his car off the road, backing it in behind a small clump of trees. He tossed the leaning dustcoat back into the car and set off toward, where, a little distance away, the slap of waves from the stiff breeze that was blowing indicated the shoreline of the sound. There was no moon, and while it was not particularly dark, objects and surroundings at best were blurred and indistinct, but that, after all, was a matter of little concern to Jimmy Dale. The first house beyond was Mittells. He reached the water's edge and kept along the shore. There should be a little wharf, she had said. Yes, there it was, and there too was a gleam of light from the house itself. Jimmy Dale began to make an accurate mental note of his surroundings. From the little wharf on which he now stood, a path led straight to the house, bisecting what appeared to be a lawn, trees to the right, the house to the left, at the wharf beside him, two motorboats were moored, one on each side. Jimmy Dale glanced at them, and suddenly, attracted by the familiar appearance of one, inspected it a little more closely. His momentarily awakened interest passed as he nodded his head. It had caught his attention, that was all. It was the same type and design, quite a popular make, of which there were hundreds around New York, as the one he had bought that year as a tender for his yacht. He moved forward now toward the house, the rear of which faced him. The light that flooded the lawn came from a side window. Jimmy Dale was figuring the time and distance from New York, as he crept cautiously along. How quickly could the whistle make the journey? The whistle would undoubtedly come, and if there was a convenient train it might prove a close race. But in his own favor was the fact that it would probably take the whistle quite some little time to recover his equilibrium from his encounter with the Great Seal in the Palais metropole. Also, the further fact that, from the whistle's point of view, there was no desperate need of haste. Jimmy Dale crossed the lawn and edged along in the shadows of the house to where the light streamed out from what now proved to be open French windows. It was a fair presumption that he would have an hour to the good on the whistle. The seal was little more than a couple of feet from the ground, and from a crouched position on his knees below the window, Jimmy Dale raised himself slowly and peered guardedly inside. The room was empty. He listened a moment. The black seal mask was on his face again, and with a quick, agile silent spring, he was in the room. And then, in the center of the room, Jimmy Dale stood motionless, staring around him. An expression, ironic, sadonic, creeping into his face. The robbery had already been committed. At the lower end of the room, everything was in confusion. The door of a safe swung wide. The drawers of a desk had been wrenched out. Even a liquor stand on which were well-filled decanters had been broken open, and the contents of safe and desk, the thieves' discards as it were, littered the floor in all directions. For an instant, Jimmy Dale, his eyes narrowed ominously, surveyed the scene. Then, with a sort of professional instinct aroused, he stepped forward to examine the safe, and suddenly darted behind the desk instead. Steps sounded in the hall. The door opened. A voice reached him. The master said I was to shut the windows, and I haven't dusted to go in, and he'll be back with the police in a minute now. Come on in with me, Minnie. Lord exclaimed under voice. Hinted a good thing the masseuse is away. Should have high sterics, steps came somewhat hesitantly across the floor. From behind the desk, Jimmy Dale could see that it was a maid, accompanied by a big, raw-boned woman. Sleeves rolled to the elbows over Brony Ames. Presumably, the mittels cook. The maid closed the French doors. There were no others in the room, and bolted them, and having gained a little confidence gazed about her. My, but wasn't he cute? She ejaculated, cut the telephone wires he did, and I intimate an awful mess. But the master said we wasn't to touch nothing till the police saw it, and to think of it happening in our house, observed the cook heavily, her hands on her hips, her arms akimbo. It will all be in the papers, and maybe they'll put up pictures in it too. I won't get to bite as long as I live, declared the maid. The yell Mr. Mittel gave when he came downstairs and put his head in here, and then him shouting and using the most terrible language into the telephone, and then finding the wires cut, and me following him downstairs, half dead with fright, and he shouts at me. Bella he shouts, shut those windows, but don't you touch a thing in that room. I'm going for the police, and then he rushes out of the house. I was going to bed, said the cook, picking up her cue for what was probably the 20th rehearsal of the scene. When I heard Mr. Mittel yell, and Lord Bella there he is now, Jimmy Dale's hands clenched. He too had caught the scuffle of footsteps, those of three or four men at least, on the front porch. There was one way, only one, of escape through the French windows. It was a matter of seconds only before Mittel, with the police at his heels would be in the room, and Jimmy Dale sprang to his feet. There was a wild scream of terror from the maid, echoed by another from the cook, and still screaming, both women fled for the door. Mr. Mittel, Mr. Mittel shrieks the maid. She had flung herself out into the hall. He is back again. Jimmy Dale was at the French windows, tearing at the bolts. They stalk. Shouts came from the front entryway. He wrenched viciously at the fastenings. They gave down. The windows flew open. He glanced over his shoulder. A man, Mittel presumably, since he was the only one not in uniform, was springing into the room. There was a blur of forms and brass buttons behind Mittel, and Jimmy Dale leaps to the lawn, speeding across it like a deer. But quick as he ran, Jimmy Dale's brain was quicker, pointing the single chance that seemed open to him. The motor boat, it seemed like a God-given piece of luck that he had noticed it was like his own. There would be no blind, and that meant fatal blunders in the dark over its mechanism, and he could start it up in the moment. Just the time to cast her off. That was all he needed. End of part 1 chapter 9b, part 1 chapter 9c of the Adventures of Jimmy Dale. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. The Adventures of Jimmy Dale by Frank L. Packard. Part 1, The Man in the Case. Chapter 9c, Two Crooks and a Kniff. Concluded. The shouts swelled behind him. Jimmy Dale was running for his life. He flung a glance backward. One form, metal, he was certain, was perhaps a hundred yards in the rear. The others were just imagined from the French windows. Grotesque, leaping things they looked, and the lights that streamed out behind them from the room. Jimmy Dale's feet pounded the planking of the wharf. He stooped and snatched at the mooring line. Metal was almost at the wharf. It seemed an age, a year to Jimmy Dale before the line was clear. Shouts rang still louder across the lawn. The police, racing in a pack, were more than halfway from the house. He flung the line into the boat, sprang in after it, and metal, looming over him, grasped at the boat's gun will. Both men were panting from their exertions. Let go, snarled Jimmy Dale between clenched teeth. Metal's answer was a hoarse, grasping shout to the police to hurry, and then Metal railed back, measuring his length upon the wharf from a blue with a boat hook full across the face. Driven with a sudden untimed savagery that seemed for the moment to have mastered Jimmy Dale. There was no time, not a second, not the fraction of a second. Desperately, frantically, he shoved the boat clear of the wharf. Once, twice, three times, he turned the engine over without success, and then the boat leaped forward. Jimmy Dale snatched the mask from his face and jumped for the steering wheel. The police were rushing out along the wharf. He could just faintly descend metal now. The man was staggering about. His hands clapped to his face. A peremptory order to halt, coupled with a threat to fire, rang out sharply, and Jimmy Dale flung himself flat in the bottom of the boat. The wharf edge seems to open in little, crackling jets of flame. Came the roar of reports like a miniature battery in action. Then the flop flop flop, as the lead, tore up the water around him. The dollar tore as the bullet buried its nose in the boat's side, and the curious rip and squeak as a splinter flew. Then Mitchell's voice high-pitched, as though in pain. Can't any of you run in motorboats? He's got me bad, I'm afraid. That other one there is twice as fast. Sure, another voice responded promptly. And if that's right, he's run his head into a trap. Cast loose there, McVeigh, and piling all of you. You go back to the house, Mr. Mitchell, and fix yourself up. We'll get him. Jimmy Dale's lips stained. It was true. If the other boat had any speed at all, it was only a question of time before he would be overtaken. The only point at issue was how much time. It was dark. That was in his favor. But it was not so dark, but that a boat could be distinguished on the water for quite a distance. For a longer distance than he could hope to put between them. There was no chance of eluding the police that way. The keen, facile brain that had saved the gray seal a hundred times before was weaving, planning, discarding, eliminating, skimming a way out. With that, ruin, disaster, the price of failure. His eyes swept the dim irregular outline of the shore. To his right, in the opposite direction from where he had left his car, and perhaps a mile ahead, as well as he could judge, the land seemed to run out into a point. Jimmy Dale headed for it instantly. If he could reach it with a little lead to the good, there was a chance. It would take, say, six minutes, granting the boat a speed of 10 miles an hour, and she could do that. The others could hardly overtake him in that time. They hadn't got started yet. He could hear them still shouting and talking at the wharf, and Mitchell's, twice as fast, was undoubtedly an exaggeration anyhow. A minute more passed, another, and then, as time, Jimmy Dale cut the racket from the exhaust of a high-powered engine, and a white streak seemed to shoot out upon the surface of the water. From where, obscured now, he placed the wharf. A quarter mile lead, roughly 400 yards. Yes, he had as much as that, but that too was very little. He bent over his engine, coaxing it, nursing it to its highest efficiency. His eyes strained now upon the point ahead, now upon his pursuers behind. He was running with the wind, tank-heaven, or the small boat would have had a further handicap. It was rolling up quite a sea. The steering gear he found was cotted along the side of the boat, permitting its manipulation from almost any position. And abruptly now, Jimmy Dale left the engine to re-merge through the little locker in the stern of the boat. But as he re-merged, his eyes held speculatively on the boat astern. She was gaining unquestionably, steadily, but not as fast as he had feared. He would still have a hundred yards lead, at least, abreast the point. And he was smiling grimly now. A hundred yards there meant life to the grey seal. The locker was full of a heterogeneous collection of odds and ends, a suit of oil scales, tools, tins, and cans of various sizes and descriptions. Jimmy Dale emptied the contents, some sort of powder, of a small, round tin box overboard, and from his pocket took out the banknotes, crammed them into the box, crammed his word in on top of them, and screwed the cover on tightly. His fingers were flying now. A long strip torn from the trousers leg of the oil skins was wrapped again and again around the box, and the box was stuffed into his pocket. The flash of a revolver shot cut the blackness behind him, then another and another. They were firing in the continuous stream again. It was fairly long range, but there was always the chance of a strip bullet finding its mark. Jimmy Dale, crutching low, made his way to the bow of the boat again. The point was looming almost abreast now. He edged in nearer, to hug it as closely as he dared to risk the death of the water. Behind, remorselessly, the other boat was steadily closing the gap, and the shots were not all wild. One struck with a curious singing sound on some piece of metal a foot from his elbow. Closer to the shore, running now parallel with the head of the point, Jimmy Dale again edged in the boat. His jaws clamped, walking in little twitches, and then suddenly, with a swift appraising glance behind him, he swapped the boat from her course, and headed for the shore. Not directly, but diagonally across the little bay that, on the far side of the point, had not opened out before him. He was close in with the edge of the point, ten yards from it, sweeping past it. The point itself came between the two boats, hiding them from each other, and Jimmy Dale, with a long spring, dove from the boat's side to the water. The momentum from the boat as he sank rubbed him for an instant of all control over himself, and he twisted, doubled up, and rolled over and over beneath the water. But the next moment, his head was above the surface again, and he was striking out swiftly for the shore. It was only a few yards, but in a few seconds, the pursuing boat, too, would have rounded the point. His feet touched bottom. It was haste now, nothing else that counted. The drum of the racing engines, the crackling roar of the exhaust from the oncoming boat, was in his ears. He flung himself upon the shore, and down behind the rock. Around the point, past him, tore the police boat, dark forms standing clustered in the boat, and then a sudden shout. There she is. See her? She's heading into the bay for the shore. Jimmy Dale sleeps relaxed. There was no doubt that they had sighted their quarry again. A perfect fusillade of revolver shots directed at the now empty boat was quite sufficient proof of that. With something that was almost a chuckle, Jimmy Dale straight tuned up from behind the rock, and began to run back along the shore. The little motorboat would have grounded long before they overtook her. And thinking naturally enough that he had leaped ashore from her, they would go trashing through the woods and fields searching for him. It was a longer way back by the shore. A good deal longer. Now over rough rocky stretches were he stumbled in the darkness. Now on through marshy, southern ground where he sank as in the quogme time, as in the quogme time and again over his ankles. It was even longer than he had counted on. And time with the whistle on one hand, and the return of the police on the other, was a factor to be reckoned with again. As a half hour later, Jimmy Dale stole across the lawn of Mitchell's house for the second time that night, and for the second time, crouched beneath the open French windows. Masked again, the water still dripping from what were once immaculate evening clothes, but which now sagged limply about him, his collar a pasty string around his neck. The mud and dirt splashed to his knees. Jimmy Dale was a disreputable and incongruous looking object, as he crouched there, shivering uncomfortably from his immersion in spite of his exertions. Inside the room, Mitchell passed the windows, pacing the floor. One side of his face badly cut and bruised from the blow with the boat hook, and as he passed, his back torn for an instant, Jimmy Dale stepped into the room. Mitchell whirled at his sound, and with a suppressed cry, instinctively drew back. Jimmy Dale's automatic was dangling carelessly in his right hand. I am afraid I am a trifle melodramatic, observed Jimmy Dale, apologetically, surveying his own bedragoat person, but I assure you, it is neither intentional nor for effect. As it is, I was afraid I would be late. Pardon me if I take the liberty of helping myself. One gets a chill in wet clothes so easily. He passed to the liquor stand, poured out a generous portion from one of the cantas, and tossed it off. Mitchell, neider spoke, now moved. Stupifaction, surprise, and a very obvious record for Jimmy Dale's revolver, mingled themselves in a helpless expression on his face. Jimmy Dale sat down his glass and pointed to a chair in front of the desk. Sit down, Mr. Mitchell, he invited pleasantly. It will be quite apparent to you that I have not time to prolong an interview unnecessarily, in view of the possible return of the police at any moment. But you might as well be comfortable. You will pardon me again if I take another liberty. He crossed the room, turned the key in the lock of the door leading into the hall, and returned to the desk. Sit down, Mr. Mitchell, he repeated, a sudden rasp in his voice. Mitchell, none too graciously, now seated himself. Look here, my fine fellow, he burst out. You are carrying things with a pretty high hand, aren't you? You seem to have eluded the police for the moment, somehow. But let me tell you, I know, interrupted Jimmy Dale softly. Let me tell you, all there is to be told. He leaned over the desk and stared rudely at the breeze on Mitchell's face. Rather a nasty crack that, he remarked. Mitchell's face clenched, and an angry flush swept his cheeks. I had made it a good deal, had I, said Jimmy Dale, with sudden insolence. If I hadn't been afraid of putting you out of business, I'm so precluding the possibility of this little meeting. Now and then, the revolver swung upward and held steadily on a line with Mitchell's eyes. I'll trouble you for the diagram of that Alaskan claim that belongs to Mrs. Michael Brink. Mitchell, staring fascinated into the little round black muzzle of the automatic, edged back in his chair. So that's what you're after, is it? He jacked out. Well, he laughed unnaturally, and waved his hand at the disarray of the room. It's been stolen already. I know that, said Jimmy Dale grimly. By you. Me! Mitchell started up in his chair, a whiteness creeping into his face. Me! I sit down! Jimmy Dale's voice rang out ominously cold. I haven't any time to spare. You can appreciate that. But even if the police return before that map is in my possession, they will still be too late as far as you are concerned. Do you understand? And furthermore, if I am caught, you are reigned. Let me make it quite plain that I know the details of your little game. You are a cobbroker, Mr. Mitchell, ostensibly. In reality, you run what is nothing better than an exceedingly profitable bucket shop. The whistle has been a customer, and also is true for you, for years. How Hanvert met the whistle is unimportant. He came east with the intention of getting in touch with a slick crook to help him. The whistle is the coincidence. That is all. I quite understand that you have never met Mr. Hanvert, nor Hanvert you. Nor that Hanvert was aware that you and the whistle had anything to do with one another. And we are playing in together. But that equally is unimportant. When Hanvert engaged the whistle for $10,000 to get the map from you for him, the whistle chose the line of least resistance. He knew you and approached you with an offer to split the money and return for the map. It was not a question of your accepting his offer. It was simply a matter of how you could do it and still protect yourself. The whistle was quite qualified to point the way. A fake robbery of your house would answer the purpose admirably. You could not be held either legally or morally responsible for a document that was placed. Unsolicited by you in your possession, if it was stolen by you, or stolen from you rather. Mittle's face was ashen, colorless. His hands were opening and shortened, with nervous twitches on the top of the desk. Jimmy Dale sleeps curled. But Jimmy Dale was clipping off his words now viciously. Neither you nor the whistle were willing to trust the other implicitly. Perhaps you know each other too well. You were unwilling to turn over the map until you had received your share of the money. And you were equally unwilling to turn it over until you were safe. That is, until you had engineered your fake robbery, even to the point of notifying the police that it had been committed. The whistle, on the other hand, had some scruples about patting with any of the money without getting the map in one hand, before he let go of the bank notes with the other. It was very simply arranged, however, and to your mutual satisfaction. While you robbed your own house this evening, he was to get half the money in advance from Hamvat. Giving Hamvat to understand that he had planned to commit the robbery himself tonight, he was to come out here then, receive the map from you in exchange for your share of the money, return to Hamvat with the map, and receive in turn his own share. I might say that Hamvat actually paid down the advance, and it was perhaps unfortunate for you that you paid such scrupless attention to details as to cut your own telephone wires. I had not, of course, an exact knowledge of the hour or minute in which you proposed to stage your little play here, the object of my first visit a little while ago. Was to forestall your turning the diagram over to the whistle. Circumstances favoured you for the moment. I am back again, however, for the same purpose, the map, middle, in a cowed way, was huddled back in his chair. He smiled miserably at Jimmy Dale. Quick! Jimmy Dale flung out the ward in a sharp peremptory back. Do you need to be told that the cartridges are dry? Middle's hand, trembling, went into his pocket and produced an envelope. Open it, commanded Jimmy Dale, and lay it on the desk, so that I can read it. I am too wet to touch it. Middle obeyed, like a dog that has been whipped. A glance at the paper, and Jimmy Dale's eyes lifted again to sweep the floor of the room. He pointed to a pile of books and documents in one corner that had been thrown out of the safe. Go over there and pick up that checkbook he ordered tessely. What for? Middle made feeble protest. Never mind what for, snapped Jimmy Dale. Go and get it, and hurry. Once more, Middle obeyed, and dropped the book hesitantly on the desk. Jimmy Dale stared silently, insolently, contemptuously at the order. Middle stared uneasily. Sat down, shifted his feet, and his fingers fumbled aimlessly over the top of the desk. Compared with you, said Jimmy Dale, in a low voice. The whistle, aye, and hammered too. Crooks though they are a gentleman. Michael Green, as he died, told his wife to take that paper to someone she could trust. Who would help her, and tell her what to do? And knowing no one to go to. But because she scrubbed your floors and therefore taught you a fine gentleman, she came timidly to you, and trusted you. You call! Jimmy Dale laughed suddenly. Not pleasantly. Middle shivered. Hammered and Green were partners out there in Alaska. When Green first went out, said Jimmy Dale slowly, pulling the tin can wrapped in oil skin from his pocket. Hammered Swindled Green out of the one strike he made. And Mrs. Green and her little girl back here were reduced to poverty. The amount of that Swindle was, I understand, 15,000 dollars. I have 10 of it here. Contributed by the whistle and hammered. And you will, I think, recognize therein a certain element of poetic justice. But I am still short 5,000 dollars. Jimmy Dale removed the cover from the tin can. Middle gazed at the contents normally. You perhaps did not hear me, prompted Jimmy Dale coldly. I am still short 5,000 dollars. Middle circled his lips with the tip of his tongue. What do you want, he whispered hoarsely. The balance of the amount. There was an ominous quiet in Jimmy Dale's voice. A check payable to Mrs. Michael Green for 5,000 dollars. I haven't got that much in the bank, Middle fenced, stammering. No, then I should advise you to see that you have, by 10 o'clock tomorrow morning, returned Jimmy Dale coldly. Make out that check. Middle hesitated. The revolver edged insistently. A little further across the desk. And Middle, picking up a pen, wrote feverishly. He tore the check from its top. And with a snarl, pushed it toward Jimmy Dale. Folded instructed Jimmy Dale in the same cut tones. And fold that diagram with it. Put them both in this box. Thank you. He wrapped the oil skin around the box again. And returned the box to his pocket. And again with that insolent contemptor stare. He surveyed the man at the desk. Then he backed to the French windows. It might be as well to remind you, Middle, he cautioned Stanley. That if for any reason this check is not honored, whether through lack of funds, or an attempt by you to stop payment, you will be in a cell in the tombs tomorrow for this night's work. That is quite understood, isn't it? Middle was on his feet. Sweat glistened on his forehead. My God, he cried out shrily, who are you? And Jimmy Dale smiled and stepped out on the lawn. Ask the whistle, said Jimmy Dale. And the next instant, lost in the shadows of the house, he was running for his car. End of Part 1, Chapter 9C. Part 1, Chapter 10A of the Adventures of Jimmy Dale. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. The Adventures of Jimmy Dale by Frank L. Packard. Part 1, The Man in the Case. Chapter 10A, The Alibi. Vets to the Gray Seal. Through the underworld, invents and dives that sheltered from the law, the vultures that preyed upon society. Prompted by self-fear, by secret dread, by reason of their very inability to carry out their purpose. The whispered sentence grew daily more venomous, more insistent. The Gray Seal, dead or alive but the Gray Seal. It was the standing orders of the police. Railed at by a populace who angrily demanded at its hands, this criminal of criminals. Mocked at and threatened by a virulent press. Stunk to madness by the knowledge of its own importance. Flunted, impudently to its face, by this mysterious Gray Seal. To whose door the law laid a hundred crimes, for whom the bars of a death cell in Singsing was a certain go, could he but be caught. The police, to a man, was like an uncaged beast that, flicked to the raw by some unseen assailant, and murderous in its fury was crouched to strike. Green paradox, a common bond that linked the hands of the law with those that outraged it. Death to the Gray Seal. Was it at last the beginning of the end? Jimmy Dale, as Larry the Bat. Unkempt. Disreputable in occurrence. Supposed dope fiend. A figure familiar to every denizen below the deadline. Scocked along the narrow, ill-lighted street of the East Side. That, on the corner ahead, boasted the notorious resort to which Bristol Bob had paid the doubtful, if appropriate, compliment of giving his name. From under the rim of his battered heart, Jimmy Dale's eyes veiled by half-closed, well-simulated drug-leading leads, mist no detail, either of his surroundings or pertaining to the passers-by. Though already late in the evening, half-naked children played in the gutters. Hawkers of multitudinous commodities cried their words under gasoline banjo touches affixed to their push cuts. Shalled women of half a dozen races, and men equally cosmopolitan, loitered at the curb or blocked the pavement or brushed by him. Now a man passed him, flinging a greeting from the corner of his mouth. Now another, always without movement of the lips, and Jimmy Dale answered them from the corner of his mouth. But while his eyes were alert, his mind was only subconsciously attuned to surroundings. Was it indeed the beginning of the end? Some day, he had told himself often enough, the end must come. Was it coming now? Surely, with a sort of grim implacability, when it was too late to escape. Slowly but inexorably, even his personal freedom of action was narrowing, being limited, and ironically enough, through the very conditions he had himself created as an avenue of escape. It was not only the police now, it was far more to be feared the underworld as well. In the old days, the role of Larry the Bat had been assumed at intervals, at his own discretion. When, in a corner, he had no other way of escape. Now it was first upon him almost daily, the character of Larry the Bat could no longer be discarded at will. He had flown down the gauntlet to the underworld. When, as the grey seal, he had closed the prison doors behind Stangaste, the Mope, Australian Ike, and Clary Dean, and the underworld had picked the gauntlet up. Betrayed, as they believed, by the one who, though unknown to them, they had counted the greatest among themselves, and each one fearful that his own betrayer might come next, every crook, every thug in the badlands, now eyed his oldest power with suspicion and distrust. And each was a self-constituted sluit, with the prod of self-preservation behind him, sworn to the accomplishment of that unhallowed slogan. That to the grey seal. Almost daily now, he must show himself as Larry the Bat in some gathering of the underworld. A prolonged absence from his hunts was not merely to invite certain suspicion. We are all we are suspicious of each other. It was to invite certain disaster. He had now either to carry the role like a little old man of the sea upon his back, or renounce it forever. And the latter course he did not even consider. The sanctuary was still the sanctuary, and the role of Larry the Bat was still a refuge, the trump card in the lone hand he played. He reached the corner, pushed open the door of Bristol Bobs, and shuffled in. The place was a glare of light. A hideous riot of noise. On a polished section of the floor in the centre, a turkey trot was in full swing. Laughter and shouting vied rockously with an impossible orchestra. Jimmy Dale slowly made the circuit of the room past the tables that ranged around the sites. We are packed with occupants who toned their glasses in tempo with the music and clamored at the Russian waiters for replenishment. A dozen, two dozen, men and women greeted him. Jimmy Dale indifferently returned their salute. What a galaxy of crooks. The cream of the underworld. His eyes, under half closed lids, sweeps the faces. Lacks, dips, gut men, yigs, mobstormers, murderers, petty sneak thieves, stalls, hangars on, they were all there. He knew them all, he was known to all. He shuffled on to the far end of the room. He is near a little arrogant, a certain arrogant too in the tilt of his battered heart. He also was quite a celebrity in that gathering. Larry the Bad was of the aristocracy and the elite of Gangland. Well, the show was over. He had stalked across the stage, performed for his audience, and in another hour now, free until he must repeat the same performance the next day in some other equally notorious dive, he would be sitting in for a rubber of bridge at that most exclusive of all clubs, the St. James. Where none might enter, save only those whose names were vouched for in the highest and most select circles, and where for partners he would possibly have a justice of the Supreme Court or may have an eminent divine. He looked suddenly around him as though startled. It always startled him that comparison. There was something too stupid thus to be simply ironical in the incongruity of it. If he were ever run to earth, his eyes met those of a heavy built, coerced futureed man, the chewed end of a cigar in his mouth, who stepped from behind the bar, carrying a tin tray with two full glasses upon it. It was Bristol Bob, ex pugilist, the proprietor. How are you, Larry, granted the man with what he meant to be a man? Jimmy Dale was standing in the doorway of a passage that prefaced a rear exit to the lane. He moved aside to allow the order to pass. Hello, Bristol. He returned dispassionately. Bristol Bob went on along down the passage, and Jimmy Dale shuffled slowly after him. He had intended to leave the place by the rear door. It obviated the possibility of an undesirable apprentice joining company with him if he went out by the main entrance. But now his eyes were fixed on the proprietor's back with a sort of speculative curiosity. There was a private room off the passage with a window on the lane, but there must be favored customers indeed that Bristol Bob would condescend to serve personally. Anyone who knew Bristol Bob knew that. Jimmy Dale slowed his shuffling gates, then quickened it again. Bristol Bob opened the door and passed into the private room. The door was just closing as Jimmy Dale shuffled by. He had had only a glance inside, but it was enough. They were favored customers indeed. It was no wonder that Bristol Bob himself was on the job. Two men were in the room. Lannigan of headquarters, rated the smartest plain clothesman in the country, and across the table from Lannigan, Whitey Mack, as clever, finished and daring a crook as was to be found in the Badlands, whose particular line was Diamonds, or in the vernacular of his ilk, White Stones that had earned him the subiquette of Whitey. Lannigan of headquarters, Whitey Mack of the underworld, sworn enemies those two in secret session. Bristol Bob might well play the part of Outer Guard. If a choice, few of those outside in the dance hall, could get a glimpse into their private room, it would be good night to Whitey Mack. Jimmy Dale's eyes were narrowed a little as he shuffled on down the passage. Lannigan and Whitey Mack with their heads together. What was the game? There was nothing in common between the two men. Lannigan, it was well known, could not be, reached. Whitey Mack, which is ingenious cleverness, coupled with a cold blooded fearlessness that had made him an object of unholy or unrestricted in the eyes of the underworld, was a thorn that was so beyond measure in the side of the police. Certainly, it was no ordinary thing that had brought these two together. Especially, scenes with the unrest and suspicion that was bubbling and sitting below the deadline, and with which there was none more intimate than Whitey Mack. Whitey Mack was inviting a risk in making up with the police that could only be accounted for by some urgent and vital incentive. Jimmy Dale pushed open the door that gave on the lane. Behind him, Bristol Bob closed the door of the private room and retreated back along the passage. Jimmy Dale stepped out into the lane and instinctively, his eyes saw the window of the private room. The shade was drawn. Only a yellow mark filtered out into the black, unlighted lane. But suddenly, he started noiselessly toward it. The window was open a bare inch or so at the bottom. The seal was just shoulder high, and placing his ear to the opening, he flattened himself against the wall. He could not see inside, for the shade was drawn well to the bottom. But he could hear as distinctly as though he were at the table beside the two men. And at the first words, the loose, disjointed frame of Larry the Bat seemed to totten curiously and strained forward light and tense. This grace you dope listens good, whitey. But coming from you, I'm Larry. You've got to show me. Don't you want him? There was a nasty laugh from Whitey Mac. You bet I want him return the headquarters man with a suppressed savagery that left no doubt as to his earnestness. I want him fast enough, but then blast him so do I. Whitey Mac wrapped out with a vicious now. So does every guy in the fleet down here. We got it in for him. You get that? Don't you? He's got Stangaste and his gang stared for the electric chair now. He put a crimp in the whistle the other night. Get that? He's like a blasted wizard with what he knows. And who will he deal the eyes in me to next? Me? Damn him. Me for all I know. That's alright, observed learning and culling. I'm not questioning your sincerity for a minute. I know all about that. But that doesn't land the grace seal. I'll walk with you if you've anything to offer. But we've had enough tips and information handed us at headquarters in the last few years to make us a trifle skeptical. Show me what you've got, Whitey. Show you a good Whitey Mac passionately. Sure. I'll show you. That's what I'm going to do. Show you. I'll show you the grace seal. I ain't handing you any tips. I've found out who the grace seal is. There was a tense silence. It seemed to Jimmy Dale as though cold fingers were clutching at his heart. Stifling its beat. Then the blood came bursting to his forehead. He could not see into the room. But that silence was eloquent. It seemed as though he could picture the two men. Laningan leaning suddenly forward. Laningan and Whitey Mac staring tensely into each other's eyes. You what? It came low and grim from Laningan. That's what asserted Whitey Mac bluntly. You heard me. That's what I said. I know who the grace seal is. And I'm the only guy that's wise to him. Am I letting you in right? You are sure? Demanded Laningan who asked me. You are sure? Who is he then? There was a half laugh and half snarl from Whitey Mac. Oh no, you don't. He growled. Mix on that. What do you take me for? A fool? You beat it out of here and round him up. Eh? While I suck my trumps? Forget it. Do you think I'm doing this because I love you? Why blame you? You've been aching for a year to put the bracelets on me yourself. Wake up. I'm in on this myself. Again, that silence. Then Laningan spoke slowly in a puzzled way. I don't get you Whitey, he said. What do you mean? Then a little sharply. You're quite right. You've got some reputation yourself, and you're badly wanted if we could get the goods on you. If you are trying to plan something, look out for yourself or... Can that, snapped Whitey Mac threateningly? Can that sort of spear right now or quit? I ain't telling you his name yet. But I'll take you to him tonight. And you and me naps him together. Is that straight enough goods for you? Don't get sore, said Laningan, more specifically. Yes, if you do that, it's good enough for any man. But lay your cards on the table. Face up, Whitey. I want to see what you opened the port on. You've seen him. Whitey Mac answered ungraciously. I've told you already. The gray seal goes out for keeps. Cursed him for a snitch. If I bumped him off, or wised up any of the guys to eat, and we was caught, we'd get the juice for it, even if it was the gray seal, wouldn't we? Well, what's the use? If one of you dicks gets him, he gets bumped off just the same. Only regular. Up in the wire pallor are sing-sing. I ain't looking for that kind of trouble when I can duck it. See? Sure, said Laningan. Besides, and moreover, continued Whitey Mac. There's some reward hung out for him that I'm figuring to burn in on. I'd swipe it all myself. And you'd never get a looking. Only saw as the mob is on the gray seal. It ain't healthy for any guy around this path to get the reputation of being a snitch, no matter who he snitches on. Bumpy muff. Sure. Snitching. Well, you get the idea, eh? I'm ducking that too. Get me? I get you, said Laningan, with a short, pleased laugh. Well, then, announced Whitey Mac. Here's my proposition. And it's my turn to hand out the lookout for yourself, dope. I'm busting the game wide open for you to play. But you throw me down, and his voice sank into a sullen snarl again. You can take it from me. I'll get you for it. All right, responded Laningan soberly. Let's hear it. If I agree to eat, I'll stick to it. I believe you, said Whitey Mac cuddly. That's why I picked you out for the medal they'll pin on you for this. And here's getting down to tax. I'll lead you to the gray seal tonight, and help you nab him and stay with you to the finish. But there's to be no body but you and me on the job. When it's done, I fade away. And nobody's to know I snitched. And no questions asked as to how I found out about the gray seal. I ain't looking for any of the glory. You can fix that up to suit yourself. The cash is different. You come across with half the reward the day they pay it. You'll get it. There was savage elation in Laningan's voice. The emphatic smash of a feast on the table. You're on Whitey. And if we get the gray seal tonight, I'll do better by you than that. We'll get him, said Whitey Mac, with a viscous oat. And Jimmy Dale crouched suddenly low down, close against the wall. The crunch of a footstep sounded from the end of the lane. Someone had turned in from the cross street, some 50 yards away, and was heading evidently for the back entrance to Bristol Bobs. Jimmy Dale edged noiselessly, cautiously back past the doorway, kept on, pressed close against the wall, and finally passed. He had not been seen. The back door of Bristol Bobs opened and closed. The man had gone in. For a moment, Jimmy Dale stood hesitant. There was a wild surgeon in his brain. Something like a myriad batteries of trip hammers seemed to be pounding at his temples. Then, almost blindly, he kept on down the lane, in the same direction in which he had started to retreat. As well, one cross street as another. He turned into the cross street, went along it, and presently emerged into the full tide of the bowery. It was garishly lighted. People swarmed about him. Subconsciously, there were crowded sidewalks. Subconsciously, he was on the bowery. That was all. Rain, disaster, peril faced him, faced him, and staggered him with the suddenness of the shock. Was it true? No, it could not be true. It was a bluff. Whitey Mark was bluffing. Jimmy Dale's lips grew thin in a matless smile, as he shook his head. Neither Whitey Mark, nor any other man, would dare to bluff like that. It was too straight, too open-handed. Whitey Mark had laid his cards too plainly on the table. Whitey Mark's words rang in his ears. I'll lead you to the gray seal tonight, and help you nab him, and stay with you to the finish. The man meant what he said. Meant what he said, too, about the finish of the gray seal. Not a man in the bad lands, but meant death to the gray seal. But how? By what means? When, where, had Whitey Mark got his information? I'm the only one that's wise, Whitey Mark had said. It seemed impossible. It was impossible. Whitey Mark was sincere enough probably in what he had said, but the man simply could not know. Whitey Mark could only have spotted someone that, for some reason or other, he imagined was the gray seal. That was it. Must be it. Whitey Mark had made a mistake. What clue could he have obtained? End of part one, chapter 10a. Part one, chapter 10b of The Adventures of Jimmy Dale. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. The Adventures of Jimmy Dale by Frank L. Packard. Part one, The Man in the Case. Chapter 10b, The Alibi Continued. Over the unwashed face of Larry the Bat, a gray pallor spread slowly. His fingers were plucking at the frayed edge of his inside vest pocket. The dark eyes seemed to turn cold black. A laugh, like the laugh of one damned, rose to his lips and was choked back. It was gone. Gone. That thin metal case, like a cigarette case, that between the little sheets of oil paper held those diamond shaped, gray colored, adhesive seals. The insignia of the gray seal was gone. Clue. It seemed as though there were an overpowering nausea upon him. Clue. That little case was not a clue. It was a death warrant. His hands clenched fiercely. If he could only think for a moment, the lining of his pocket had given the way. The case had dropped out. But there was nothing about the case to identify anyone as the gray seal, unless it were found in one's actual possession. Therefore, Whitey Mack, to have solved his identity, must have seen him drop the case. There could be no question about that. It was equally obvious then that Whitey Mack would know the gray seal as Larry the Bat. Did he also know him as Jimmy Dale? Yes or no? It was a vital question. His life hung on it. That keen, facile brain, normed for the moment, was beginning to work with lightning speed. It was four o'clock that afternoon when he had assumed the character of Larry the Bat. Sometime between four o'clock and the present, it was now well after eleven. The case had dropped from his pocket. There had been ample time then for Whitey Mack to have made that appointment with Lannigan, and ample time to have made a syrup t-shirt's visit to the sanctuary. Had Whitey Mack gone there? Had Whitey Mack found that hiding place in the flooring under the oilcloth? Had Whitey Mack discovered that the gray seal was not only Larry the Bat but Jimmy Dale? Jimmy Dale swept his hand across his forehead. It was damp from little clinging bits of moisture. Should he go to the sanctuary and change? Become Jimmy Dale again? Was it the safest thing to do or the most dangerous? Even if Whitey Mack had been there and discovered the dual personality of Larry the Bat, how would he, Jimmy Dale, know it? The man would have been crafty enough to have left no sign behind him. Was it to the sanctuary that Whitey Mack meant to lead Lannigan that evening? Or did Whitey Mack know him as Jimmy Dale? And to make it more sensational, plan to carry out the coup, say, at the St. James Club? Whitey Mack and Lannigan were still at Bristol Bobs. He had probably time, if he so elected, to reach the sanctuary, change and get away again. But every minute was priceless now. What should he do? Run from the city as he was for cover? Or take the gambler's chance? Whitey Mack knew him as Larry the Bat. It was not certain that Whitey Mack knew him as Jimmy Dale. He had halted, absorbed in front of a moving picture theater. Great placards at first, but a blood of color, suddenly forced themselves in concrete form upon his consciousness. Letters a foot high leaped out at him. The double life. There was a picture of a banker in his private office, hastily secreting a forged paper as the hero in the guise of a clerk entered. The companion picture was the banker in convict stripes staring out from behind the bad doors of his cell. There seemed a ghastly ogre in the coincidence. Why should a thing like that be trust upon him to shake his nerve when he needed nerve now more than he had ever needed it in his life before? He raised his hand to jack aimlessly at the brim of his heart, dropped his hand abruptly to his side again, and started quickly, hurriedly, a way through the trunk around him. A sort of savagery had swept upon him. In a flash he had made his decision. He would take the gambler's chance, and afterward Jimmy Dale's lips were like a thin straight line. It was Whitey Mark's life on his own. Whitey Mark had said he was the only one that was wise, and Whitey Mark had not told Lannigan yet. Wouldn't tell Lannigan until the showdown. If he, Jimmy Dale, got to the sanctuary, became Jimmy Dale, and got away again. Even if Whitey Mark knew him as Jimmy Dale, there was still a chance. It was his life or Whitey Mark's. Whitey Mark with his lean, jawed, clean-shaven wolf's face. If he could get Whitey Mark before the order was ready to tell Lannigan. Surely he had the right of self-preservation. Surely his life was as valuable as Whitey Mark's. As valuable as a man's, who, as those in the secrets of the underworld knew well enough, had blood upon his hands. Who lived by crime? Who was a menace to this community? Had he not the right to preserve his own life at the expense of one such as that? He had never taken life. The thought was abhorrent. But was there any other way in the event of Whitey Mark knowing him as Jimmy Dale? His back was against the wall. He was trapped. Certain death, and worse, dishonored him in the face. Lannigan and Whitey Mark would be together. The odds would be two-to-one against him, and he had no quarrel with Lannigan. Somehow he must let Lannigan out of it. The other side of the street was less crowded. He crossed over, and still with the shuffling tread that dozens around him knew as the characteristic gate of Larry the Bat. But covering the ground with amazing celerity, he hurried along. It was only at the end of the block that cross street from the boundary that led to the sanctuary. How much time had he? He turned the corner into the darker cross street. Whitey Mark would have learned from Bristol Bob that Larry the Bat had just been there. That is, that Larry the Bat was not at the sanctuary. Whitey Mark would probably be in no hurry. He and Lannigan might wait until later, until Whitey Mark should be satisfied that Larry the Bat had gone home. It was the line of least resistance. They would not attempt to score the city for him. They might even wait in that private room at Bristol Bob's until they decided that it was time to sally out. He might perhaps still find them there when he got back. At any rate, from there, he must pick up their trail again. On the other hand, all this was but supposition. They might make at once for the sanctuary, to lie in wait for him. In any case, there was need. They spread need for haste. He glanced sharply around him, and by the side of the Tenement House, that bordered onto the alleyway, with a curious swift gliding motion, he seemed to blend into the shadow and darkness. It was the sanctuary. That room on the first floor of the Tenement. The Tenement that had three entrances. Three exits. A passageway through to the saloon on the next street that are booted on the rear. The usual front door and the side door in the alleyway. Gone was the shuffling gate. Quick, a lot. He ran, crouching, bent down along the alleyway, reached the side door, opened it stealthily, closed it behind him with equal caution, and in the dark entry stood motionless, listening intently. There was no sound. He began to mount the rickety, dilapidated stairs, and where he seemed that the lighter thread must make them creep out in blatant protest, his trained muscles, delicately compensating his body weight, carried him upward with a silence that was almost uncanny. There was need of silence, as there was need of haste. He was not so sure now of the time at his disposal, that he had even reached the sanctuary first. How long had he loitered in that half-dazed way on the bowery? He did not know. Perhaps longer than he had imagined. There was the possibility that Whitey Mac and Leningan were already above, waiting for him. But even if they were not already there, and he got away before they came, it was imperative that no one should know that Larry the Bat had come and gone. He reached the landing, and paused again. His right hand, with a vicious muzzle of his automatic peeping down from between his fingers, thrown a little forward. It was black, utterly black around him. Again, that stealthy cut-light thread, and his ear was at the keyhole of the sanctuary door. A full minute, priceless though it was, passed. Then, satisfied that the room was empty, he drew his head back from the keyhole, and those slim-tapering fingers, that, in their tips, seemed to embody all the human senses, felt over the lock. Apparently, it had been undisturbed. But that was no proof that Whitey Mac had not been there after finding the metal case. Whitey Mac was known to be clever with a lock. Clever enough for that, anyhow. He slipped in the key, turned it, and on hinges that were always oiled, silently pushed the door open, and stepped across the threshold. He closed the door until he was just a jar, that any sound might reach him from without, and whipping off his coat began to undress swiftly. There was no light. He dared not use the gas. It might be seen from the early way. He was moving now quickly, surely, silently, here and there. It was like some weird spectra figure, a little blacker than the surrounding darkness, fleeting about the room. The oil clot in the corner was turned back. The loose flooring lifted. The clothes of Jimmy Dale taken out. The rags of Larry the Bat put in. The minutes flew by. It was not the change of clothing that took long. It was the eradication of Larry the Bat's make-up from his face, truth, neck, wrist, and hands. Occasionally, his head was turned in a tense listening attitude. But always, the fingers were busy, working with swift deafness. It was done at last. Larry the Bat had vanished, and in his place stood Jimmy Dale, the young millionaire, the social lion of New York, immaculate in wealthy Lord tweets. He stooped to the hole in the flooring, and his fingers, going unerringly to the hiding place, took out a black silk mask, and an electric flashlight. His automatic was already in his possession. His lips parted grimly. Who knew what part a flashlight might not play? And he would need the mask for Leningan's benefit, even if it did not disguise him from Whitey Mac. Had he left any telltale evidence of his visit, it was almost what the risk of a light to make sure. He hesitated, then shook his head, and stooping again, carefully replaced the flooring, and laid the oilcloth over it. He dared not show a light at any cost. But now, even more caution than before was necessary. At times, the lodgers had naturally enough seen their failure lodger, Larry the Bat, enter and leave the tenement. None had ever seen Jimmy Dale either leave or enter. He stooped across the room to the door, halted to assure himself that the hole was empty, slipped out into the hall, and locked the door behind him. Again, that trained, long-practiced, silent tread upon the stairs. It seemed as though an hour passed before he reached the bottom, and his brain was streaking at him to, hurry, hurry, hurry. The entryway at last, the door, the alleyway, a long breath of relief, and he was on the cross streets. A step, two, he took in the direction of the bowery, and he was bending down as though to tie his shoe, his automatic from his side pocket concealed in his hand. Was that someone there? He could have sworn he saw a shadow light from start out from behind the steps of the house, on the opposite side of the street, as he had emerged from the alleyway. In his bent posture, without seemingly turning his head, his eyes swept sharply up and down the other side of the ill-lighted street. Nothing. There was not even a pedestrian in sight on the block from there to the bowery. Jimmy Dale straightened up nonchalantly, and stooped almost instantly again, as though the lace were still proving refactory. Again, that sharp searching glance. Again, nothing. He went forward now in apparent unconcern. But his right hand, instead of being buried in his coat pocket, swung easily at his side. It was strange. His ineffective route to the contrary. He was certain that he had not been mistaken. Was it Whitey Mark? Was the question answered? Was the Gracie known to as Jimmy Dale? Were they trailing him now, with the climax to come at the club, at his own palatial home? Wherever the surroundings would best lend themselves to a surgeon that inordinate thirst for the sensational. That was so essentially a characteristic of the confirmed criminal. What a headline in the morning's papers it would make. At the corner, he loitered by the curb to light a cigarette. Still, not a soul in sight on either side of the street behind him, except a couple of Italians who had just passed by. Strange again. The intuition, if it were only intuition, was still strong. He swung abruptly on his heel, mingled with the passersby on the bowery. Walked a rapid half dozen steps until the building hit the cross streets. Then ran across the road to the opposite side of the bowery. And in a crowd now, came back to the corner. He crossed from curb to curb slowly, sheltered by a fringe of people. That, however, in no way obstructed his view down the side streets. And then Jimmy Dale shrugged his shoulders. He had evidently been mistaken after all. He was overexcited. His nerves were raw. That, perhaps, was the solution. Meanwhile, every minute was counting. If Whitey Mark and Leningrad should still be at the Bristol Bobs, he kept on down the bowery, hurrying with growing impatience through the crowds that massed in front of various places of amusement. He had not intended to come along the bowery, and, except for what had occurred, would have taken a less frequented street. He would turn off at the next block. He was in front of that moving picture theater again. The double life. His eyes were attracted involuntarily to the lurid overdone display. It seemed to threaten him. It seemed to dangle before him a premonition, as it were, of what the morning held in store. But now, too, it seems to feed into flame that small dream fury that possessed him. His life or Whitey Mark's. Men, women, and the children who turned night into day in that quarter of the city were clustered thick around the signs, hiving like bees to the bald sensationalism. Almost savagely, he began to force his way through the crowd, and the next instant, like a man stoned, had stopped in his tracks. His fingers had closed in a fierce sparse muddy clutch over an envelope that had been tossed suddenly into his hand. Jimmy, from somewhere, came a low quick voice. Jimmy, it is half past eleven now, hurry. He wailed, scanning wildly this face, then that. It was her voice, her voice, the duxin. The sensitive fingers were telegraphing to his brain, as they always did, that the texture of the envelope too was hers. Her voice, yes, anywhere out of a thousand voices, he would distinguish hers. But her face, he had never seen that. Which, out of all the crowd around him was hers. Surely he could tell by her dress. She would be different. Her personality alone more singular out. She say, have you got the pipe? Or do you think yours owns the heads? A man flung at him, heaving and pushing to get by. With a start, though he scarcely had the man, Jimmy Dale moved on. His brain was afire. All the irony of the world seemed masked in a sudden overwhelming attack upon him. It was useless. Intuitively, he had known it was useless from the instant he had heard her voice. It was always the same. Always. For years, she had eluded him like that. Come upon him without warning and disappeared. But living always that tangible proof of her existence. A letter. The call of the grey seal to Amps. But tonight it was as he had never been before. It was not a lone baffled child renown. Not a lone, the longing. The wild desire to see her face. To look into her eyes. It was life and death. She had come at the very moment when she, perhaps a lune of all the world, could have pointed the way out. When life, liberty, everything that was common to them both was at stake. In deadly peril. And she had gone. Ignorant of it all. Leaving him staggered by the very possibility of the sucker that was held up before his eyes. Only to be snatched away without power of his to grasp it. His intuition had not been at fault. He had made no mistake in that shadow across the street from the sanctuary. It had been the toxin. He had been followed. And it was she who had followed him. Until in a crowd, she had seized the opportunity of a moment ago. Though, ultimately, perhaps it changed nothing. It was a relief in a way to know that it was she. Not Whitey Mark who had been looking there. But her persistent, incomprehensible determination to preserve the mystery with which she surrounded herself was like noun to cost them both a ghastly price. If he could only have had one word with her. Just one word. The letter in his hand crackled under his clenched fist. He stared at it in a half blind, half bitter way. The call of the gray seal to arms. Another coup with its incident danger and peril that she had planned for him to execute. He could have laughed loud at the inhuman mockery of it. The call of the gray seal to arms. Now, when with every faculty drained to his last resource, cornered, trapped, he was fighting for his very existence. Jimmy Dale. It is half past eleven now. Horry. The words were jangling discordantly in his brain. And now he laughed outright, muttlessly. A young girl hanging on her escort's arm passing glanced at him and giggled. It was a different Jimmy Dale for the moment. For once, his immobility had forsaken him. He laughed again. A sort of unnatural, desperate indifference to everything falling upon him. What did it matter? The moment or two it would take to read the letter. He looked around him. He was on the corner, in front of the palace saloon. And turning abruptly, he stepped in through the swinging doors. As Larry the Bat, he knew the place well. At the rear of the bar room and along the side of the wall were some half dozen little stalls, partitioned off from each other. Several of these were unoccupied, and he chose the one farthest from the entrance. It was private enough. No one would disturb him. From the uprooted individual who presented himself, he ordered a drink. The man returned in the moment, and Jimmy Dale tossed a coin on the table, bidding the order to keep the change. He wanted no drink. Transaction was wholly perfunctory. The waiter was gone, pushed the glass away from him, and tore the envelope open. End of part 1, chapter 10b